May 3 , 2007 Issue

The business of writing is a singularly solitary pursuit. One was once faced with a blank sheet of paper in a typewriter, now it’s a blank screen and the writer must transform the nothing into something. It’s not always easy to come up with an theme for filling that space, especially if one wants to stay away from current events or politics; subjects most writers could go on an on about.

One thing that is unusual about writing for newspapers is that from time to time the writers are offered the opportunity to do something they would not ordinarily be able to do. At least once a year, an intrepid reporter from the daily newspaper flies in an Air Force jet and reports on the experience. Ordinary citizens only pay for the jets; they are not given the opportunity to take a ride, but journalists are.

And so it was that many years ago, I was invited to ride the final leg of a trail ride into San Antonio, Texas for the annual rodeo. At the time, I was writing for a small weekly paper and I had a small, but highly disturbed following, which is the only reason I can think of they asked me along in the first place. These trail riders annually left their jobs behind and rode many miles into the city for the rodeo roundup. At the urging of my co-workers, I decided to do it because it was one of those once in a lifetime chances to do something out of the ordinary.

Wearing mostly borrowed gear such as boots, a cowboy hat and a western style coat and toting a camera, I met the trail riders in China Grove (yes the very same one as the Doobie Brothers song) at the crack of dawn. They had camped overnight, while I drove in after a comfortable night in my own bed. I took a cup of the camp brewed coffee, even though I was concerned about comfort breaks on the approximately 20-mile ride. However, noting how the others were slugging it down, I assumed there was a plan. Thankfully, there was.

The horse was huge. Huge. I had to stand on a box in order to be able to mount it. I had ridden horses as a young girl, but the lessons were in the proper English saddle. This was decidedly not an English saddle.

Once mounted, I made myself as comfortable as one can when seated on an animal. I was told the animal was gentle and accustomed to riders whose skills were not highly refined. In other words, they didn’t think the guy would buck me off and this was a considerable concern because the route to the convention center was largely beside the freeway. You haven’t lived until you’ve been astride a horse, 75-feet above a freeway interchange.

The lane was narrow. I was slightly terrified, but trying gamely not to show it. It was impossible for people to ride side-by-side, so I was on my own. Had the animal decided it had had enough of me, you wouldn’t be reading this because I would have gone ass over teakettle onto hard concrete below and I was acutely aware of it. I was sorry I had ever looked down.

By and by, we reached our destination. It had taken most of the day since we stopped at a restaurant for lunch and the comfort stations. When all was said and done, I would have to say it was a pleasurable experience, made more so by the pleasant folks I was riding with. There was no danger I was going to buy a horse and decide to make the 100-mile trek the following year, but it was something I got to do simply because people who write opinion pieces for newspapers share themselves a good deal and the people who were reading me at the time thought I might enjoy it. They were right and I was grateful for the experience.

Special thanks to Eric Stratmann for helping me to remember this day in my life and thus have something to fill the blank screen with today.

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